Mortuary
by DarkForbidden-Love
Summary: The world works in mysterious ways, the heart in even stranger ways.  A last resort is called and a bluff put into place.  But this is hardly a civil match as both sides play dirty, and who ever wins this will win the world.
1. Setting the Stage

I don't own Sherlock. I loved this last episode of Sherlock though and had to make it complete. Sherlock fakes his death to fool John? Well then, John must fool Sherlock into thinking he is dead in order to bring him out of hiding.

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><p>The door chimes sounded softly and shadows started. Two pairs of eyes, one pair that should be crying and one pair that could be made of stone and be yet warmer, met. "Hello, Mista Watson," the owner of the second pair of eyes drawled. "What can I do for you today? It has been such a long time since you last gifted my shop with you presence, just after you returned I believe." The owner pinned John with another cold stare.<p>

John did not flinch just returned the stare calm and even, "I need you to have me disappear. I'm well aware that you still have the facilities to do so."

"Ah, so you do remember?"

"For the most part." For someone heading towards their death John was calm and collected.

The owner laughed and moved towards John, sizing him up. "I do believe I have just what you need. I can even arrange a certificate of death for you and a cozy coffin."

"Do it." was his answer ever collected.

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><p>Darnit, this was supposed to be a oneshot. ;-; I don't think this is the end though<p> 


	2. Sealing the Deal

Like I said, I wasn't planning on having this as more then a one-shot. But it is amazing what three people can do. I forget to reply to those who leave a name but I love reviews anyways and I do read them 3

I don't own Sherlock.

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><p>"It is done~" The owner sang nearly sprinting over to John Watson, showing emotion for the first time since he had first stepped into her shop. The owner placed a card into John's hand and he glanced down at it.<p>

"It works," John stated, "But will it be enough? As I said before, it must interest him."

The owner laughed, "You told us his brother is Mycroft Holmes, right?"

John nodded, "Quite correct."

"Then he'll know and come running, I wouldn't worry, Mista Watson." The owner nodded to the death certificate in John's hand, "That will be interesting enough, though we did add a little spice of mystery to the death also at your request."

John idily tapped the top of his cane not quite believing his death would be enough for Sherlock to come back to life. "Anything you need me to do?" He knew the success of this mission layed in the minor details, something living with Sherlock for a year had taught him.

"Normal things." The owner stated, "Your body will be found by the restaurant that you informed us of, so you need to tell Mrs. Hudson or the police chief of your plan to eat there." The owner did not need to state to not act impatient or uncomfortable, John knew that already and the owner knew that John knew.

John raised an eyebrow and asked, "Time?"

The owner looked thoughtful and after a brief silence stated, "Anytime between 4 and 8 in the after noon. The body will be available at that time, and there will be a person there who had volunteered to be the murderer."

John leaned back and opened his cigarette pack, "Have they been informed of possible death, not just by Sherlock after he finds out I'm not dead?"

The owner shifted slightly and John's eyes narrowed. But the owner hastily raised her hands and said, "They are prepared to die but they want me to ask you if they should expect torture before they reveal that you're alive?" John shook his head and the owner smiled the same smile as before. "Pleasure doing business with you then. I look forward to your death and return."

John recieved this as the dismissal it was and stood up to leave but as he reached the door he turned back around and locked eyes with the owner, "As long as you deliver, I don't think it'll be a problem." With that said John lit his cigarette and left the shop with its grinning caretaker.

He never heard the words of the caretaker after he left, "I don't think I'll quite ever understand why this Sherlock fellow left you, dear brother."

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><p>Yes, some wierd mafia boss woman is my head cannon for Harry Watson. *Hangs head in shame*<p> 


	3. A Family's History

I don't own Sherlock again.

I absolutly love yoiu guys and hope you bear with my random ramblings in this chapter. And I'm so glad I made some of you who don't normally comment, comment.

And I wasn't sure this belonged in this story. I might make a whole other story called, _The Watson Generations. _And this would be part of it. And I'm working on the official next chapter for this story (_Mortuary)_, but to be honest, I didn't plan this out at all so I'm kind of floundering as to what to do next.

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><p>John still hears Sherlock even though he is not there. He knows Sherlock is gone, not dead, just gone. John became too normal, to average, to hold Sherlock's attention anymore so he was going about to regain it. He had remembered his sister and a family history dark enough to interest Sherlock. Of course Mycroft would not have approved of his little brother moving in with the next heir to the high throne of crime, but allowances must be made and John doubted that Mycroft did not know of his dubious family history. Though he supposed in some humorous ways the Watson family mirrored the Holmes family and John would bet that Christmas dinners was hell for both families. John did have his doubts, though that Mummy Holmes Christmas list was a list of people who needed to die or be robbed and destroyed.<p>

The Watson's had always been a crime family so deeply imbued with the raw human needs of blood, lust, and drugs it was a large surprise that no one connected one to two. John was hardly an exception; he had just chosen another path that filled his carnal needs. A medical soldier supplied him with everything he needed, blood from the wounds he cared, his lust was sated with the random relationships that happened in the army, and adrenaline worked well as a substitute for drugs.

Moving in with Sherlock had been probably the best thing that could have ever happen to this Watson. A single man who could take a single look at you and calmly explain your history and every single mistake you ever made. It also meant that he was unable to take the Job of becoming head of the Watson crime family. The honor was passed onto his sister who already had an affinity for the criminal arts. Her wife had not approved of that or Harry's drinking habits and so left her. But even a criminal empire is fragile and so Harry Watson lost herself among drink and deals made in dark cellars. She never forgot her little brother, though and was quite happy to see him at her door so many years later. The phone (wired, of course) in his hand and a grim smile on his face. He did not even need to tell her why he was there, like any older sister she knew. She also knew that if this Sherlock Holmes ever showed his face here before bending on hand and knee and apologizing to her brother, that he might end up a bit more bloodied then before. The Watson family was nothing if not protective of what was theirs.

It was expected that at some point in your life you needed to die while still living, and right now it was John's turn and Harry promised she would make it perfect, for her baby brother if nothing else.

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><p>So yeah, please forgive me for the rambling mess that might be turning into a pivitol plot point?<p> 


	4. Death and Normalacy

I have such amazing reviewers. I love (platonically of course) you all. If you want me to reply personally to your review just put {Response preferred} at the end of your review and I'll respond ASAP.

This chapter wrote itself, I swear. So that fast past where everything seems to be happening in a five minute period? Yeah, that is how much this chapter wanted out even though I'm not sure it is what I wanted or that I even particularly like it. I don't know, the chapter just doesn't seem right. (And I'm not talking about my abominable spelling and grammar.)

Don't own Sherlock.

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><p>John hummed lightly careful not to be to obviously happy for today. It was hard to contain though, as today would start the ball rolling towards reviving Sherlock. He knew he had to be especially careful with Mycroft watching him like a hawk since Sherlock's fall. Everyone seemed to be watching him actually, and it had been a rare occasion that he had been able to slip to his sister's shop to arrange his death. John honestly did not get it; he was not crazy, not yet anyways. All it had taken was a ray of light through the grief and a very good look at the scene of the fall.<p>

"They just don't make people like they used to." John laments softly running his hand along the mantel piece, looking for the skull. John knew this caused Mrs. Hudson to worry for him and send him out to do small tasks and that was when he'd spring the news of his reservations at Angelo's.

John heard the soft sigh from Mrs. Hudson and the low murmer of, "O, dear." But pretended not to, today was too important to mess up. "John, dear, could you run out and get some milk, we're running low." John looked up from his search of the skull and smiled.

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson. I think I might stop at Angelo's while I'm out too." John said as he grabbed his coat.

"Okay, dear, just be back before dark." Mrs. Hudson honestly worried about John, she had seen how close he and Sherlock were and worried that Sherlock's death had cause permanent damage to the poor doctor.

John ambled out the door and Mrs. Hudson watched him go, worried. She absentmindedly noted the John's limp was gone unlike yesterday when it had been bothering him so much that he had not even left the flat.

John smiled as he felt the brisk London air move through his hair. He wrapped his coat around him tighter to keep the wind out and headed towards the cemetery. It was still early in the morning, so he had time to burn before his appointment tonight and he might as well enjoy his last day alive until Sherlock noticed the body was not his. Plus, visiting Sherlock's grave was a routine even after John had figured out that Sherlock was still alive. Changing his routine would bring suspicion on his death later today.

"Hey, Sherlock." He greeted the headstone with a little smile. He drops down beside the gravestone and counts his followers. It is easy in a place like this, where it is easy to tell who is actually mourning and who does not feel all that comfortable walking where mourners walk. John spots four of Mycroft's men and one of Harry's. The follower from Harry is new but John figures it is so he will not be held up for long enough to miss his appointment. Around 1 in the afternoon John finally leaves the graveyard intent on getting lunch and losing his followers. Thankfully he did know this wonderful little shop which was nearby, and the dining area was inside, making it easier to slip away. A few minutes later he was eating a sandwich and sipping tea in the shop watching at Mycroft's agents floundered with their order. It was all theatrics John knew but it was still highly amusing. While they were trying to order, John paid for his meal and headed back into the surging crowds of London. By now it was midday and more people where out and about. John was having a lot of fun just playing with Mycroft's minions but knew he would actually have to lose them at some point. He notes they have switched by 3 pm and grins, apparently they are not cut out for keeping up with a wounded army veteran. He does give them credit though for keeping him under tabs for five hours in London, a city that very few ever learn to navigate. A chance to give them the slip appears and John takes it, sliding into a very large tour crowd and losing a few choice items of his attire. He reappears from the crowd as a man a little down on his luck and hiding something in his coat. Most people ignore him now and he happily wanders off to Angelo's. He is a bit early but figures he can scope the area out a bit before he meets the one who may eventually be caught for 'murdering' him. 30 minutes of wandering later John bumped into someone and looked up to apologize to them before realizing who it was.

John had locked eyes with the person who was to be his murderer and recognized them. Not **who** they were but **what** they were. This was a person who had lost the will to live but refused to kill themselves, worrying over those they might leave behind, almost what he had become. By medical definition they were alive; by social definition they were dead. The person smiled and John almost flinched, the smile was like shards of glass. "Would you like to see your body?" They asked and John nodded, following him deeper into the shadows. They stopped at a black lump placed carefully in a dirty corner. The person knelt down and carefully removed the black shroud that had been thrown on the lump and John eyed the corpse critically.

"How long has it been dead? When was the surgery performed?" John fired off, knowing the answer could affect how crime played out.

"Freshly dead." The person replied monotone. "Surgery performed post mortem by a few minutes."

"Wonderful." John comments and hands his personal effects to him, minus his phone. "I'll leave you to your job then." The man nods and disappears leaving John alone, he sighs and hobbles off to Harry's knowing that she will have a place for him set up. He may be even able to watch the news coverage of his death. He arrives at Harry's shop just as the pot whistles; he can hear it through the flimsy door.

John knocks and Harry shouts, "It is open, you can come through, John!" John pushes the door open to see a ridiculous and domestic scene before him, one that does not fit his crazy, crime boss, drunkard of a sister. She sees his shocked look and grins, "I've been somber since you came to me about getting yourself killed. I'm trying to cook. Go watch your death on the telly and I'll shout when dinner is done."

John stands in the door way a bit longer before wandering out to do as Harry suggested smiling at the cursing coming from the kitchen. This reminds him a bit of when he was younger and his parents were attempting to cook as a special treat for him or Harry. John soon forgets about that, though, as the news suddenly flashes images of what appear to be his own dead body. The news anchor is rambling on about how London has lost a fine doctor and that many people are mourning. John snorts; he does not believe a word of it. What surprises him though is the fact that DI Lestrade and his men are actually allowed to work on the case. It then cuts to live footage of the crime scene as Harry walks into the room with spaghetti on paper plates. She hands one plate to John, grabs her business phone, and settles down to watch with him.

Harry frowns after several minutes though and pulls out her phone and texts a very direct message to the man who was standing next to DI Lestrade. She recognized him from the description John had given of his first kidnapping, Mycroft Holmes, older brother of Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft's phone vibrated and he opened the incoming text to see, _Step away from the body, Mycroft. _Seconds later another one came through, _Contact Sherlock, London has informed me that this is dangerous._

Mycroft stared at his phone but did not show any outward emotions. He was impressed with whoever it was though because the number came up as non-existant. "Eve, would you be so kind as to look up this number?" He demanded his secretary in a polite tone.

'Eve' looked up from her Blackberry and mouthed, 'It doesn't exist.'

Mycroft glanced back at the phone and carefully typed, _Sherlock is dead-MH._

The reply came almost instantaneously, _That isnt what London tells me_

_London doesnt talk-MH_

_But it has eyes and ears. I want Sherlock on the case and Im sure MrWatson would have wanted it to._

_Youre family of the deceased are you not?-MH_

_Possibly~ _with that the conversation ended and Mycroft was sure he had been talking to Harriet Watson, John's estranged sister. No matter, the surveillance cameras would reveal it all later.


	5. Sherlock Finds Out

I don't own Sherlock.

And now the long awaited chapter (according to your reviews) of actual Sherlock and how he feels when John 'dies.'

Also I love all you reviewers, I could not ask for better.

And I am not a detective who has ignored emotion stimuli for almost his entire life so I have no idea if I got Sherlock right. I probably don't even have half his IQ. I also tried for a stagnant and delayed emotion response but I'm not sure it came out right.

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><p>Sherlock would admit that ever since his 'death' he had become slightly obsessed with making sure John was all right and becoming a better detective so that John would allow him back into the flat as right now he was just a liar; and who wants a liar for a flat mate? Every single day, before he heads out to town he checks the surveillance cameras of his old flat and watches his flat mate go about his daily business. He felt something (an emotion, pointless, but still present) at John's lost look the first few days after Sherlock had pretended to die. He watched his dear flat mate go insane, holding conversation with the skull he had left behind calling it 'Sherlock'. Then it all stopped, one day while John was on the phone he had grinned and for the first time it did not seem broken. That was 1 week, 3 days, 8 hours, and 32 minutes after Sherlock had jumped. Sherlock wondered who he was talking to, and what the feeling in his gut was.<p>

Sherlock watches as John stumbles around the flat after that, but he no longer call the skull 'Sherlock' though sometimes he would still talk to it. John often spends his time out of the flat or in Sherlock's room, which makes Sherlock pleased for some reason. It was a normal day then when John went about the flat looking for the skull, muttering about how badly made humans are nowadays. Mrs. Hudson sending him out for milk was rather ordinary too, even though Sherlock knew that no more milk was needed. It was when John did not return by night fall he worried. John always returned by night fall. It took seconds to find out what happened and Sherlock stared at his phone in shock for more than a few minutes.

John was not allowed to die! Sherlock had left so John would be safe, not so that he could die. John was not allowed to die until both he and Sherlock were very old; he was supposed to go peacefully, not murdered. Sherlock's mind seemed to repeat itself, tauntingly telling him that it was his entire fault. If he had not left, John would not have been killed. In the process of protecting John he had killed him. Sherlock felt something trickle down his face and felt empty. He tied to ignore what he learned; he tried to tell himself that it was a trick of the mind. But the image from the web haunted him, the mauled body of John Watson found two blocks from Angelo's. Something nagged at the back of his mind but the image of a dead John blocked it out. He scanned the article again, looking for some clue that the person lying dead was anyone other than John.

The file on the computer did not offer enough info, simply stating all of John's personal effects were found on the body and that Mrs. Hudson had confirmed that those where the clothes that the doctor had been wearing when he left the flat, even the brand of milk in his bag was the one she preferred saying that she had asked him to pick it up early that same day.

He cannot focus on the case that he has courtesy of Mycroft, he tries but the image of John broken, bleeding, dead ("dead," his traitorous mind whispers, "because you left him") distracts him. He cannot shake the feeling that if he had not left, had not pretended to die; John would still be whole, healthy and alive at Baker Street. After two frustrating and agonizing hours he gives up, and texts Mycroft, _Coming back to London –SH_

_For John?-MH_

Sherlock feels angry at his brother for being so unintelligent as to not contact him the first second that he knew John was dead or even that John had slipped surveillance. Sherlock knew his brother was cruel and unemotional but he had just enough faith in him as to believe that Mycroft's men were not the ones to kill John; just their lax standards had allowed his killer near.

_Yes; dont try and stop me –SH _was all the response he gave his brother before donning his coat and exiting into the temperate weather of Tokyo. He happened to know a man who could get him to London in less than a day no matter what orders his brother gave. Whoever killed John, they would pay. Death is too kind for them, so Sherlock will torture them. They killed John, they deserve it.


	6. Frustration, Anger, Boredom

_I still don't own Sherlock._

_And I'm spoiling you all with these updates. I normally wait months to update again. And I've given you six updates in five days O.o Sorry for the shortish chapter._

_I still love reviews. And don't feel afraid to leave criticism, I know I am by no means a perfect writer._

_Annemarie=Eve=Athena (I will have a new name for her every single chapter)_

Mycroft was disappointed and a bit angry. The video feed he had of Harry Watson's shop and flat showed…absolutely nothing. They showed the same feed looped endlessly which said more than enough on how pathetic some of the government workers were. The loops were not even terribly good ones as though taunting him and he knew he would eventually resort to looking up the enigmatic Harriet Janice Watson. Then there was the matter of his brother, who had refused to stay in Japan demanding that he be allowed to come back to London to take care of John's death. Mycroft glares at his computer and phone in turn then allows his face to resume the normal façade of indifference. This situation calls for delicate handling. He called to Annemarie, "Get a car ready and welcome my brother back." His tone was cold and indifferent but Annemarie knew that her boss was extremely stressed.

"Of course, sir." She replied without looking up from her black berry, "Which airport? Should I leave an anonymous tip to the media?" She offered the last one as a way to stall Sherlock and not quite as seriously even though her tone was even.

"Private airport, suburbs probably," Mycroft's eyes closed for a second before flicking open again, "Farnborough. And don't bother telling the media, they'll find out soon enough, as they can't seem to keep their noses out of anything."

Annemarie nodded sharply, "Yes, sir." With that she left the room to pick Sherlock up. Mycroft knew if she needed him he would get a text. With a repressed sigh Mycroft settled down for a day of politics and his little brother.

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><p>Sherlock wanted to pace but knew that it would be impossible with his current position. He was currently cramped into the storage area of a small private plane. Mycroft had tried to stop him as per normal but Sherlock had managed to escape Tokyo, Japan. He knew his brother had relized what had happened and would have his annoying assistant and car waiting for him. He would have to be careful though, because he had a feeling that Mycroft would try to keep him from the information on John's death. And if he was in his right mind Sherlock might have agreed, but right now he was furious.<p>

Someone had touched his flate mate and doctor and they had killed him. Just thinking about it made Sherlock's vision red and a dark corner of his mind whispered about being emotionally comprised.

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><p>John was bored. This was not a new developement but normally he would have someone or something to take his mind off of all of it. Harry had tried but it was hard, as she had a criminal enterprise to run. John knew he could help her but knew he would be much help, there was a reason he had chosen not to go into the family business. He did have the telly on but nothing terribly interesting was playing. Right now he was simply surfing the net, not really paying much attention to what he was doing. John was surprised with how impatient he was with Sherlock to simply figure out that he was not dead. Sherlock might be a bit angry with John at first for fooling him but John was sure that he could eventually beat some sense into Sherlock.<p>

He wanted his crazy, supposedly sociopathic, and energetic flat mate back. He missed the cases he and Sherlock used to do, he missed running around London and stealing the DI's badge. He would even go as far as to say that he missed the body parts in the fridge. Sherlock used to keep him on his toes and in the battlefield without the nightmares.


	7. Calls, Stores, and Not Quite Dates

Not quite the month I was expecting. ^^ This story really likes being written and who am I to deny it? Thank you for all the lovely reviews. Everyone that likes this chapter better say thanks to Assonant who reminded me that I was writing this story. S/he made my muse chatty and happy.

Do you really think I own Sherlock? If I did I'd feel bad for everyone watching the show, it would take me forever to get episodes out, and I'm just not motivated until the muse bites to the bone.

I'm playing with line breaks, please bear with me.

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><p>John Hamish Watson<p>

John awoke the ringing of Harry's phone. She was out for the day doing whatever crime bosses did nowadays so John quickly answered. "The Watson household, how may I help you?" He does not give his name as that would give the game away; the guess would probably that he is hired help for the shop.

"I'm reporting that Sherlock is on the move. He returned to London yesterday, and had accessed the files on the murder of John Hamish Watson. He seems angry and should probably be approached with caution." A monotone voice says. John almost grins into the phone; Sherlock is back and will soon have figured it out.

"Does the press know?" John asks. He knows who is talking and knows the line is secure.

The voice draws a sharp breath, "Not yet, but they are like a blood hound, they won't stop until they get the story. Would you like us to keep them unaware until the goal is reached?"

John thinks for a second then gives his consent, "Yes, though deaths will be kept at minimum. Warn the Passorna Family that they will be getting a visit soon. Who knows by now that Sherlock Holmes still lives?"

"Just Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, his assistant- who is called Camellia for today, and Molly know he can still walk and talk."

"Good, your money will arrive soon, thank you for being of service." John says and waits for a reply.

It forth comes a few seconds later, "Always a pleasure to serve the Watson Family. Stay safe, stay strong." The phone disconnects then and John is left with a wide grin and a lighter heart. Sherlock is back in London, where he belongs, and soon John will be with him.

Sherlock Holmes

The first thing Sherlock notices after escaping the clutches of his dear brother's assistant, is that something is off with the murder. Yes, the man has John's face, clothes, and groceries, but the gun is missing. Plus the cane is not quite right; the chemical burn for one of his later experiments is missing. It is not a new cane either, Sherlock would have known if John had gotten a new cane. This led to the inevitable conclusion that this was not John, but was supposed to be him. Whether the body was purposely misleading for Sherlock or for the rest of the world, or simply a miscommunication, John was probably in danger. Sherlock's hyper aware mind focused on that one thing, John was possibly in danger. John was not supposed to be in danger, or at least not danger that Sherlock could not control. John needed danger to some extent to survive and Sherlock was not interesting in stifling something that made his doctor so interesting, but the idea of John being in over his head and possibly being hurt by someone simply because Sherlock decided to jump of a building to stop John from getting a sniper bullet though his head made Sherlock's blood boil. His eyes narrowed and he filed away bits of data that he observed. Right now he needed to focus on the important not the inconsequential.

Why was John targeted?

Why had someone gone to such great lengths to make everyone think it was John?

Who knew John intimately enough to pull off a fake John in less than three months?

And who had the connections to do so?

The questions answered themselves and Sherlock wondered what he had done to make his brother so angry. It was now null and obsolete though, as even Mycroft would pay for touching Sherlock's doctor. Mycroft was not a singular option, of course. There were others who could have done it- the mysterious Harriet, who gave a lover's phone to John to keep in contact, Clara who had occasionally bothered to set up lunches with John on days there were no cases. Of course a third party who had collected enough data to create an almost believable John Watson was also a possibility. There simply was not enough data without seeing the crime scene first hand, pictures could only show so much.

Plus, the gunshot wound did not appear to have been what killed the man in the photo who was not John. It would seem a likely cause but it appeared to be post mortem, Sherlock was willing to bet the man died of natural causes and was given surgery and a shot after death. Who had connections to do that though? The answer lead back to Mycroft, but it was not Mycroft. There was evidence to support that, and his brother knew the consequences of touching his doctor. Sherlock whipped out his Blackberry frustrated and typed in "_Harriet Watson"_ simply to see what would come up. He was surprised to see a shop called _Mortuary_ which was a family business and little else. Sherlock had never thought in his many deductions and analysis of John Watson that a family business, dealing mostly with murderers who wanted to start clean, would be part of it. His homeless network had often talked of _Mortuary_ citing it as a place to go to find safety.

Mycroft Holmes & Harriet Watson

It was a business meeting of the most interesting kind. A high end restaurant that made even some of the rich and powerful diplomats he entertained uncomfortable, yet Harry seemed at ease. Or more accurately, he supposed, at ease but pretending not to be. It was all small talk right now with Mycroft responding without thinking, all mundane safe topics. That was until Harry sighed and splayed her hand on the table, "I know this isn't a social meet, Mr. Holmes, so care to tell me why you have had me kidnapped on my way to a job interview?"

"I don't think you actually need that job, Miss. Watson, your mother and father left you a sizeable inheritance." Mycroft replied smoothly.

Harry snorted quietly, "My brother just died, Mr. Holmes, he always wanted me to stop drinking and support myself."

"A bit too late isn't it, Miss. Watson?"

"I would have preferred to do it before he passed away but it didn't work out that way. Now if you'll excuse me, I must leave." With those worlds and a sniffle, Harry abruptly stood and stormed out of the restaurant. Mycroft was sure; the tears streaming down her face were false. Pointing it out would not have been beneficial to his cause, but his theory had been cemented, Harry knew something and was more then she appeared.

"If you weren't lesbian, and I wasn't gay, Harriet, it would've worked out." Mycroft murmured to himself as he sat alone sipping wine at his table, absentmindedly noting that the rest of the bottle was missing, along with his phone.


	8. History in the Making

I'm not dead? Oh, and I still don't own Sherlock BBC. Explaining a few things, this chapter is. And what do you think of Moriarty/Molly (him being her creepy stalker/supplier)? Because the dear might be dead but he is hardly /gone/. Short chapter may be short but it is simply setting a stage for a much grander play.

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><p><strong>Molly Hooper<strong>

Anyone you asked would be able to tell you that Missus Hooper of Saint Barts did the best post mortems. Depending on who 'they' was they might also tell you that Missus Hooper often made fake files for a certain price. Mr. Smith's body that had been dragged up from the river? Was actually a Mrs. Jane Lucas who had been deceased for quite a while. Nasty business really, and such a state of affairs that innocent little girls should hardly meddle in. Too bad that did not count for anything when you worked with the dead.

Her particular talents where not for just anyone though and very few people could afford her. Because she was the best at what she did she knew at first glance that her Mister John Hamish Watson was in fact a fake. Just like her Mister Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler a couple months prior. She also knew whose handy work she was looking at without checking the artist's signature. An odd colleague of hers for sure, but she had never pegged him for an artist of this nature. Oh, well, she would leave him a note and get a few questions answered, but for now she had a body she needed to strip and take care of. The media was to be kept out of the know with this person's identity but it might help Sherlock with his search.

Goal in mind and a grin on her face, Molly gleefully dug into the cold corpse; carefully extracting its secrets and former life.

**John Watson**

A steady knocking made John rise from the depths of the shop that doubled as a house. It was hardly the knock of a client or one of his sister's visitors. Clara never visited either, which left John quite at a loss for who could be calling. Carefully he crept to the door avoiding the areas where he could be seen from the windows to peer out the peep hole. The face that stared blankly at the door was quite a surprise to him. He could hardly summon a thought for why Mycroft Holmes would be at the door of _Mortuary. _The little store hardly attracted attention except for those it was created to service, and he sincerely doubted that the elder Holmes needed the help of Harry to disappear.

John could hardly answer the door, being as dead as he was so he stood on one side of the door and waited with baited breath for the elder Holmes to leave. He did, but not before dropping a letter and a couple watchers. John rolled his eyes and retreated to the safety of the house, already getting jittery from being cooped up. Soon enough he would have something to do, if Harry's business proposition came through. But soon was not now so he was stuck to being confined to the house and shop, an invalid once again. And as much as he hated wearing latex and plastic it was so much better then giving up a game.

One thing about Watsons was they played fast, dirty, and always for keeps.

**Harriet Watson**

Harry wondered what normal people did once they pickpocketed the British Government. Well, first off, she supposed was the simple fact that they did not pickpocket the British Government. Now that she had his phone…what was she to do with it? She hardly wanted to meddle in international affairs, and so had simply added her phone number in it so they could have 'chats' more benefiting workmen of their level. Really what a petty squabble about their siblings, they should be left to their own devices and hearts.

As the ringing started she pulled her own business mobile out answering with a curt, "This is _Mortuary_, what services are needed at this time?" A voice she had not heard in a long, long time replied.

"Do you still deal with rebirths?"


	9. And so the Game Starts

The action picks up here and copious boring fillers and background are done…mostly. ^-^ Short and sporadic updates while I figure out what the hell I'm doing.

I don't own Sherlock.

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><p><strong><em>Time only tells what it wants to…<em>**

"For you, sweetie, we do anything." Harry replied in her business tone, despite the flirting words.

The woman on the other side of the phone laughs heartily, "How does a two person flat, Oxford education and the works sound? Under the name of Elizabeth Jane Grinstein, if you can manage it." The last part is equally jest and query, Harriet is the best for her type of business but there are still things that might be undoable.

Harry sighs and traps her phone between her ear and shoulder to pull out a notepad, "What's your budget?"

"Up to 900 million pounds up front." Harry looked thoughtful. With a price like that it must have some hidden clause and the most common one was time restraint. She scribbled a figure down and all the demands of her customer.

Harry sounded a bit weary as she asked, "Time limit?"

"Nine days." That was sufficient time to do most of it, the name might be stretching it but Harriet never backed down from a challenge.

Harry looked down at her scrawled figures and told her customer, "Consider it done. I'll have my best man on the job. Eye on any real estate?" With the figure already given she could easily grab most real estate in London and the surrounding area.

The woman sighs, sounding a bit reminiscent, "In London preferably. Actually a little flat on Arlington Street caught my attention." Harriet's breath catches; she knows the exact flat that is being talked about without the house number ever being mentioned.

"Nine days and it'll be Elizabeth's. Come to the shop to sign the agreement." She carefully keeps the emotions out of her voice; this is her client, not an old flame.

The grin is verbal, "See you soon, Harriet."

The woman hung up but Harry smiled and said, "I look forward to it, sweetie." She flipped her mobile shut and scribbled something down on her pad of paper. Anything stored on her phone could be retrieved but anything on paper could be completely destroyed. Whistling to herself, Harriet set of for the post office, she had an object of interest for the British Government, and it would not do to keep it on her person. She studiously tells herself that she is not happy because it was Clara on the phone. The same Clara who she kinda fell in love with and then divorced due to 'conflict of interests'.

Actually, she could quite work this to her little brother's advantage. It simply would not do for him to be at a loss simply because she thought with her heart instead of her head.

_John, grab shop laptop, see if "that" flat is still available. –HW_

_Done, and yes. –JW_

_See if you can buy it.-HW_

_Done. ?-JW_

_We're getting a little help from an old, old friend. –HW_

_Your last 'old friend' is dead. –JW_

_You think he left without a legacy? –HW_

_Unless 'legacy' is a new word for 'pet' then yes, he left without legacy. –JW_

_Never count a family member out until you stand knee-deep in their ashes. –HW_

_We don't pull full family hits anymore. –JW_

_Because we didn't have anyone standing against us. Prepare for war, we're up against Britain. –HW_

_Whose move? –JW_

_Ours –HW_

If anyone had chanced a peek at Harriet Watson and John at that moment they would have noticed twin grins of mischief. War was where Watsons belonged, on a battlefield, testing their limits and their humanity. And now it was time to bear arms once again, there were allies with them and enemies against them.

It was as close to perfection that two broken humans could get. And maybe, if they chanced a win this round, it would be a step closer to that completion they desired.


	10. Is this Poker or Chess?

In the end, I still own nothing except the mafia twist. Cudos to whoever knows where the first line of this chapter comes from.

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><p><em><strong>The beginning...<strong>_

_In the end we are all stories. All that matters is how good a read you make, maybe you are a best seller or maybe you are a flop. The story starts when you are conceived and ends when the last person speaks your name..._

"John!" Harry shouted, slamming the door unnecessarily, "I'm home!"

John, who had been in the basement responded with a curt, "No, really?" Harry laughed as she made her way to the cellar, carelessly flinging her coat and umbrella to the side.

"Always the funny one, aren't you?" She asked without expecting an answer. "What ya doin' down here?"

John looked up to were his sister had stopped on the steps, "Fixing a couple of things. You did say to prepare-whoever makes the first correct move wins, sister dear. Even your elementary knowledge of chess can tell you that."

Harry grinned and leaned on the cellar's stair's railing, "I think of it more as poker, who ever has the best bluff wins." John shook his head and motioned his sister deeper within the cellar. He had a familiar shape nestled in his arms, that even as a babe Harry would have recognised.

"Who's the client?" John quiered, interest to know if his guess had been correct. The fact it was 'that' flat that had been asked for all but confirmed it.

Harriet does not answer, "What are you working on? I know I keep all my guns in good repair."

John looks down at the weapon in his arm and shrugs, "I find cleaning them to be very relaxing. I might have done a couple of things with some stuff I picked up in the army too." Harry smiles at him fondly, not moving from her spot.

"Welcome back to the family, John."

"Glad to be back." A smirk flicks between them, their first move planned and brought to action without a word.

**_Every problem has two sides..._**

_Silence is golden. Secrets are made to be broken just like glass. Tread with caution, one false step ends it all._

"Sherlock?" Mycroft wearily asked from the bottom of steps. Sherlock did not answer but anyone could tell from the noise that he was in the flat.

"I've come to talk to you about your former flatmate." A snarl was heard from upstairs and Mycroft knew that he had heard. "You know his name is not actually John Hamish Watson?"

Sherlock, in his fully coated glory, appeared at the top of the stairs, "Go away, Mycroft."

Mycroft pretended not to hear him, "It was one of his three birth names, and the one closest to the truth. The Watson family actually fully adopted the name, creating a legal looking history sixteen days after his birth. Harriet was almost named Annabelle, and John easily could have been Samuel or Alphonso." Sherlock came face to face with his brother.

"Out of the house!" He yelled, "Out! I don't give a fuck who he was or could have been. He's my flatmate and my friend which happens to be, correct me if I'm wrong, none of your damn business."

Mycroft was not moved by his brother's anger, "Emotions are not an advantage," He reminded the former detective. "Caring will get you no where."

"Caring kept the Watson family on top of the crime syndicate for three generations and allowed it to be untouched by Moriarty." Sherlock reported stiffly. "It worked for them well enough that no one can touch them. I'd like to see you try and tell them that caring is not an advantage." Mycroft opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock beat him to it, "I already know about yours and Harriet's roundevou. I'll warn you now, you've started a game you can't win." Sherlock marched, backwards, up the stairs, keeping his face to Mycroft the whole time. "You might be Britain but the Watsons are London. You've played into their hand and I can't say I much feel like helping you escape. John can take care of his damn self, I know I can get him back when I need to." Mycroft paled at this and Sherlock smirked, "Oh, _Mortuary,_ what a quaint little shop. A place you can go so that you don't exist. Drop as much as you can and people will delete you so well that you'll forget you exist. Don't you remember that little rhyme? Mortuary/ Oh place of sleep/ What secrets keep?/ Silence be not key/ This be plain to see/ Dead talk/ But not to the living/ Dead walk/ But for themself/ Dead dine/ But not with wine/ Oh, Mortuary/ Do you dead keep?" His cryptical puzzle delivered Sherlock disappeared, leaving Mycroft at the foot of the stairs very much disturbed.

"Do you not know the rest?" Mycroft asked a silent flat. "Oh, Mortuary/ Crypts of gold/ Coffins for the cold/ Dead to keep/ Fall asleep/ Place of light/ Forget thy plight/ Lay down/ With thy broken crown/Sleep away/ Do not wake with day." No answer, not even a sound from upstairs and so Mycroft turned to leave.

He stopped at the sound of shuffling and a question, "Is that a child's fairytale?"

Mycroft shakes his head, not turning to face Mrs. Hudson, "No, Mrs. Hudson, a riddle from our childhood. Mummy used to tell it to us all the time."

"And what was that mother's name? I do think she knew that family, rather well if the riddle is anything to go by." Mycroft raised an eyebrow, hand raised to the doorknob.

"Meredith Emelia Holmes is her only name. And yes, she used to be a runner for them and in the end she still would have given her life for them." Mycroft sighed and looked to the closed door of 221B. "I'm afraid that is one of their many gifts, emotional manipulation. I fear he may have fallen prey to the wiles of a Watson." He shook his head, mourning the loss of a family member.

Mrs. Hudson grinned, "It's not him I'm worried for." She retreated to her own rooms and Mycroft left, not at all worried about the senile landlady with strange ideas. If he had thought to turn around he might have noticed a familiar glimmer in her eyes. Her beloved and dead husband had been one of the many rivals of the Watson clan and she knew how good they were. She would have to remind John not to shoot up her walls, insurance refused to cover it now a days.


End file.
